


the folly of creation

by maleficent_birdsong



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (just a little bit though), Gavin and Kamski are half-brothers, Gavin is only mentioned, Gen, I actually kinda hate him for the most part but this made me feel sorry for him, Kamski? Feeling Sad? It's More Likely Than You Think, Post-College Pre-Game Kamski, Sad, Sickfic, Vomit, Whump, but after Kamski has started working on Chloe, this takes place before androids are even sold, young!Kamski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-04
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-07-06 17:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15890394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleficent_birdsong/pseuds/maleficent_birdsong
Summary: Those optics.No. Those -eyes-.They had been programmed to display the most realistic look of pity that could be synthetically created. But the emotion in them felt all too real at the moment.Elijah was surprised how often he could fool himself with his own work. For now, he could blame it on the fever.





	the folly of creation

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda hate Kamski for the most part but some folks were talking about him and actually made him interesting to me, so I wrote this. Naturally, I had to hurt him. Praise the fandom for giving more life to these characters than D*v*d C*g* ever did.
> 
> This story takes place after Kamski graduates college and founds CyberLife but before he completes the first Chloe. You can take it as pre-Kamski/Chloe if you want, but you don't have to.

It was only 1:04 AM on a Saturday and Elijah Kamski found himself heaving into a toilet for the third time that night. (Thankfully, he had the foresight to keep his hair in a ponytail.)   
  
A migraine throbbed painfully behind his eyes, worsening every time he felt himself retch again. Damned computer screens with their awful blue light, he thought, searing lines of code into his vision until he was certain he'd have to get a new glasses prescription. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and pass out on the cold tile floor and forget about everything: the project, the company, the investors, the deadlines.   
  
Everything including the blonde-haired, blue-eyed android currently sitting on the edge of his bed, curiously watching him empty his stomach until there was nothing coming up but bile.   
  
To the investors, she was the RT600. More accurately, the _prototype_ of the RT600, intended to be sold as the world's first intelligent domestic android, perfect for menial household tasks, completely, unquestionably loyal, and strikingly beautiful.   
  
Elijah called her “Chloe.”   
  
The rest of the company had thought it silly to give a name to an android. In theory, one might liken it to naming a toaster or a laptop. Even comparing it to naming a pet sounded wrong.   
  
To Elijah, though, he couldn't bear to look into those hand-assembled optics and call her by a product number. He insisted that it made her sound less robotic and more user-friendly. He tried to appeal to the advertising group in particular. “What would the average buyer have an easier time picturing in their home and connecting with?” he challenged. “A 'Chloe', or a string of numbers?”   
  
They had begrudgingly accepted, and the files for CyberLife's unreleased product campaign contained thousands of display mockups bearing the name. It made him proud.   
  
It also made him unbearably queasy.   
  
What had he been thinking, promising to have a completely finished and functioning design by the end of July? He never imagined himself in this position: only nineteen years old and having potentially billions of dollars ready to fall in his lap.   
  
He also hadn't imagined himself being on the brink of a world-changing technological breakthrough and foolishly falling back to his old nervous habits; namely, procrastination.   
  
Just like in college.   
  
His grades and young age at the time of his graduation had spoken volumes about his intelligence, but his tendency to put things off until the last second spoke plenty about his true personality, the one that he hid beneath a veneer of carefully-crafted smiles, disgustingly fake charm, and purely manufactured charisma.     
  
Worst of all, he had no one to fall back on for support.   
  
He had long since alienated his only living family member: his half-brother Gavin had already developed a long list of reasons to dislike Elijah before the latter had been accepted to one of the most prestigious universities in the country on an academic scholarship and left the former to scrape by in the slums of Detroit. Despite Gavin's aversion to him, Elijah had been secretly keeping tabs on his estranged sibling: he knew that Gavin was going to school to become a police officer and, despite his rough and antagonistic nature, he was doing quite well. It pleased him. Perhaps he would make something good of himself and find the value of his own talents and, more importantly, his own self-worth. Still, Elijah didn't hold hope for a happy family reunion any time soon.   
  
His only true “rock”, so to speak, had been Amanda Stern, his former professor. She had been the family he had always longed for, the only one in his life who had been intelligent enough to challenge him and put him in his place when his ego grew too large. She had humbled him countless times, but it rarely caused him any resentment; in fact, he was usually delighted to have his mistakes pointed out because it led to deep conversations with her that often went beyond the nature of artificial intelligence. In the simplest of terms, being with Amanda was like being home.   
  
But now she was gone, touring the world to further her own studies of intelligence and robotics. Last he heard, she was in Japan for a large technology expo. She wrote him when she could, but it was never enough. He understood on a professional level how demanding her career choice was and the unrelenting waves of attention that came with having such a vast body of knowledge.   
  
On a personal level, though, he wished he could be by her side forever. Even to follow behind in her shadow would be a dream; in reality, Elijah felt like no more than a tiny pebble on the ground at the foot of a large mountain. He didn't feel worthy of her attention despite how much he craved it.   
  
And part of him did realize that his impending breakthrough had the potential to ignite a spark that would grant him the biggest explosion of success he could ever hope for, shooting him far above Amanda in both monetary worth and popularity while also launching him into the social circles that he had idolized since he began studying technology.   
  
But that was only if he managed to achieve the breakthrough. And at the moment, his throbbing head and aching stomach were quite vocal about their resistance to the idea. They begged him for rest, the sleep he had been denying himself ever since he had somehow managed to synthesize a new variant of the odd chemical known as thirium. He knew that the version he'd created would be the key to unlocking the secrets of the vast world of artificial intelligence... he just wasn't sure exactly how.   
  
And if his body had any say in the matter, it would still be a while before he figured that out.   
  
_Or at least not tonight_ , he thought miserably. He coughed weakly, spitting one last time into the toilet bowl before shakily wiping his sweaty forehead. Everything felt way too hot.   
  
“Chloe, current room temperature for the apartment, please,” he mumbled just loud enough for the android's audio processors to pick up.   
  
“The current room temperature is seventy-one point six degrees Fahrenheit, twenty-two degrees Celsius. Shall I adjust the thermostat, Elijah?” she questioned in a polite tone.   
  
He shook his head, then, unsure if she was still watching him, said, “No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, Chloe.” He let his head rest against the toilet seat, trying to catch his breath. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, loud as a war drum. There were tears stinging his eyes - purely from the physical strain on his body, he told himself, and definitely not from any kind of loneliness.   
  
He didn't need anybody, he told himself repeatedly. Others would only hinder his progress and keep him from achieving peak perfection. Others would lie and cheat and steal his ideas to further their own goals.   
  
Others wouldn't understand him. Not his intelligence, not his complex thought process.   
  
Not his anxiety. His fear of rejection.   
  
His thoughts of self-pity were interrupted suddenly when Chloe, who had quietly entered the bathroom, placed a hand on the back of his damp, sweat-soaked jacket. He yelped in surprise, his head temporarily rising from its place on the toilet seat to turn and look at her.   
  
“Elijah,” she began in a gentle voice, “your body temperature is currently one-hundred point seven degrees Fahrenheit, thirty-eight point two degrees Celsius. This is the third instance in which you have vomited within four hours. You are exhibiting signs of high mental stress and severe dehydration. Shall I contact emergency medical services?”   
  
Those optics.   
  
No. Those _eyes_ .   
  
They had been programmed to display the most realistic look of pity that could be synthetically created. But the emotion in them felt all too real at the moment.   
  
Elijah was surprised how often he could fool himself with his own work. For now, he could blame it on the fever.   
  
“No, thank you, I'll be okay,” he murmured, setting his head back down. The seat was getting too warm for his liking and he was tempted to finally slip onto the tiles to ease the heat emanating from his face.   
  
Without warning, the blonde android snaked her arms underneath his and hoisted him up to his feet, waiting only a moment before wrapping an arm around his back and leading him to his bed.   
  
“Wh-what are you doing?” he wheezed, finding himself sitting on the edge of his bed before he could even properly react. She still had an arm around him to keep him from falling forward.   
  
“You need rest, Elijah,” said Chloe, using her other hand to place his glasses on the nearby nightstand. (Elijah idly wondered when she had grabbed those. At least he hadn't crushed them or dropped them in the toilet.)   
  
“I need to finish my work,” he argued weakly, pinching the bridge of his nose. The room was mostly dark, save for the bedside lamp, but it was still too bright for his liking.   
  
“I apologize, but your current physical state indicates that further work on your experiments may be detrimental to progress, as they may possibly lead to miscalculations and errors.” She seemed to be analyzing him carefully as she looked into his eyes. “I recommend waiting until you have recovered to continue your studies.” She sounded almost... concerned. Like she actually cared.   
  
He realized her hand was still resting on his back.   
  
That soft voice and gentle touch. It was almost intoxicating.   
  
Almost.   
  
“I don't - I don't need to _recover_ ,” he snapped, forcing himself to look away from her, but he could already feel another wave of nausea threatening to crash over him. His stomach gurgled in warning and he let out a sour belch, grimacing at the taste. “I can keep going. Just a few more hours, then I'll stop for the night.” He realized that he sounded like he was bargaining with her – why would he have to? He could do what he wanted. He was an adult, damn it.   
  
And she was just a machine.   
  
His machine. His _creation_ .   
  
She continued to look at him with those pure eyes. “I recommend-”   
  
He felt his face heating up even more. “You don't need to recommend anything, just let me work, _fuck_ -”   
  
“Elijah.” Her gaze did not waver.   
  
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and Elijah swore the room was getting hotter.   
  
He didn't know what to say. He was too tired to argue anymore, but he'd be damned if he would stop working just because this _robot_ had told him to. He had to keep going.   
  
Even if his body ached and his brain was full of static.   
  
Chloe pursed her lips. Elijah had never seen her do that before.   
  
Then her hand started rubbing his back, startling him once more. He flinched and nearly fell off the bed, scrambling to move away from her and closer to the head of the bed.   
  
“Don't,” he gasped, closing his eyes as his heart hammered in his chest. “Please. Just don't.”   
  
A moment passed. “I am only trying to assist you in the most efficient way possible,” she finally said.   
  
“I... I just want to be alone, okay?” he managed through gritted teeth. He chanced one last look at her and regretted it immediately.   
  
She wore an odd expression. If not for his vast and respectable knowledge of all the workings of her systems, he would have sworn that she looked disappointed.   
  
It made his stomach hurt even more.   
  
“As you wish,” she said simply, standing up and exiting the room. As the door closed behind her, Elijah let out a deep breath.   
  
This fever was really fucking with him, he decided. He had just yelled at his android and damn near had a panic attack, and on top of that, his eyes were playing tricks on him. There was no reason to look for emotions that weren't there, no matter how lonely he was.   
  
Even someone as smart as he was couldn't manufacture something like that.   
  
He looked down at his hands and realized he was trembling even worse than before. The room now felt like it was on the surface of the sun. Letting out another deep breath, he carefully lifted his legs onto the bed and slid back, reclining against his pillows.   
  
Perhaps a small break was in order after all. He turned off the lamp and closed his eyes, willing his heart to slow down.   
  
He was alone, and Chloe was just a machine. Just a machine, he repeated to himself.   
  
_Just a machine_ , his brain echoed.   
  
He woke up about six hours later without realizing that he had even drifted off. His eyes opened to darkness, and he was confused for a moment before recognizing the problem.   
  
A damp washcloth was resting on top of his forehead and partially obscuring his vision. It was warm now, presumably from resting on his face for a while, but with enough lingering traces of coldness that hinted at its placement being recent. When he moved it away, he squinted and saw a neat stack of three other damp washcloths resting on the sink in the bathroom.   
  
He turned his head to look at the nightstand. There sat a full glass of water and a bottle of antacids.   
  
He sucked in a shaky breath. She had even untied his hair.   
  
His fever was gone and the nausea had passed, but worse feelings had replaced them:   
  
A painful, aching longing in his chest. And a hollow emptiness even deeper inside.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments are super-appreciated, and do let me know if you're interested in more Kamski stories set in this time period!


End file.
